


the ritual of kings

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Blindfolds, Canon-Typical Beholding, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Fluff, M/M, Monsters in love, Post-Canon, surprisingly soft given everything, watcher's crown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-10-01 18:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: When it all comes down to it, the culmination of the Watcher’s Crown is relatively simple.Jon and Elias, and a shared moment during the Watcher’s Crown.





	the ritual of kings

**Author's Note:**

> i just keep writing soft jonelias and i don't know how or why

When it all comes down to it, the culmination of the Watcher’s Crown is relatively simple.

All is quiet in the reading room of the British Museum, and the silk of Jon’s blindfold is the deep dark blue of the starless night visible through the windows above. It’s just a few minutes to midnight, and Jon can _ feel _ the tug of the rising moon, though the sight of it is denied to him.

Even if Jon wanted to, he couldn’t stop what’s about to happen, and he’s far beyond any such thing. Already, the pocket of changed world in their ritual space is the most beautiful thing he could ever have imagined. No darkness and no ignorance; no fumbling for answers that are always out of your grip. Just knowledge, forever and forbidden, and a world that he can archive until he fades to dusty, soulless bones.

Elias’ hand is heavy on Jon’s neck, an anchor in the wonder of the storm.

“We’re almost there, Jon.” Jon may be blindfolded, but he knows the curve of Elias’ smile, the way Elias’ eyes are glittering with tears — not sadness, certainly, and not even joy. Just _ feeling, _ pure and intense. A few years ago, Jon couldn’t have imagined how much emotion Elias has within him. The force of it threatens to overwhelm them both.

“Whatever you think, Elias, the platitudes aren’t helping pass the time.” Jon’s voice sounds very far away to his own ears. The Ceaseless Watcher is sitting behind his eyes and waiting for the world to be unveiled.

“I’ve waited centuries for this,” Elias chides, but his tone is fond and indulgent to the last. He caresses a thumb across Jon’s neck, mindful not to disrupt the careful knot of the blindfold. “I’m sure you can manage a few more minutes of patience.”

“When have you _ ever _ known me to be patient?” Jon mutters.

Elias laughs softly, giddily. Jon’s heart skips a beat.

“Stubborn man,” Elias says, dizzy with reverence, and Jon knows he means _ perfect. _

Jon exhales and doesn’t reply, because even now, Elias’ worship is hard to stomach. For all Jon has changed and grown into something realer than real, he still feels… human. A man, not a messiah. Elias’ thumb caresses his neck again, and Jon sighs. The semantics of it all don’t really matter at this point, all things considered, only the symbology — symbology, Elias assures him, is very powerful indeed.

“How long do we have left?”

“Only a few minutes.”

_ “Jon.” _

“Fine. Three minutes and thirty-six seconds before…” Jon trails off. For all the knowledge that is so close to being at his fingertips, he can’t think of a way to describe the in-between they find themselves caught in. “I can give you the milliseconds as well,” he offers instead, droll.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Elias’ voice is warm with amusement. “You’ve already proved yourself so wonderfully capable.”

“Yes, yes, I’m great, you’re great, we’re all _ delightful.” _

Elias laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of Jon’s head.

“A little bit of self-assurance wouldn’t go unearned, at this point.”

“And _ who’s _ being crowned tonight, exactly?” Jon doesn’t mean for the honey-gold compulsion to slip into his voice alongside the scathing sarcasm, but it tastes so sweet on his tongue.

He can feel the way Elias goes silent, biting his lips with a bright spark of pain that echoes across both of their minds. Still scared of the answers Jon could pull from him, after all this time. Elias is probably the only one who could resist Jon anymore; Jon feels a flutter of affection, and equally strong, a flash of bitter frustration.

Symbology, he reminds himself. The Archivist is deprived of knowledge until the moment when he is finally allowed to _ see. _ The blindfold seems to press in ever-deeper on his eyes, but no amount of darkness can scare him anymore.

Elias exhales in relief as the compulsion fades from the air, his breath warm against Jon’s neck.

“Soon,” he promises, and presses his mind towards Jon’s.

Jon still doesn’t know how to describe the sense of Elias’ being pouring into him, a winter’s storm over a placid ocean. Elias shares his gaze, his thoughts, every caress against Jon’s skin. Any other time, Jon would push back into Elias’ consciousness, seeing as much as he was seen, but that has to wait. Tonight, Jon is the focal point of his god, and Elias is his protector — or his keeper.

Elias laughs with both of their mouths, fingers curling against Jon’s neck.

“I appreciate your sense of romance,” he says, crisp like ice on Jon’s tongue.

Jon would reply, but everything is beginning to feel _ too much. _ Between the greedy promise of the Eye’s presence and the comparable balm of Elias’, Jon is _ known, _ utterly and completely. His breath catches in his throat with the weight of it. His eyes burn with tears, soaking into the cloth that blinds him — blinds them both, in a way.

Midnight rings through London.

Behind him, Jon hears a terrified inhale, a soft “Oh,” of awed and awful realisation.

Jon doesn’t remember the blindfold coming off, but his sight is clear as he turns his gaze upwards. Through the dome of glass that rises above them, the full moon shines down to illuminate all, the single shining pupil of the Eye itself. As Jon watches, the sky blinks once for the novelty of blinking. Then it sets about its ceaseless watch, its unearthly metamorphosis.

Shining pinpricks burst across the inky darkness of night. As the all-seeing starlight pushes through the light pollution over London, knowledge breaks like sunrise across the horizon.

Jon staggers to his feet, and just as quickly falls to his knees.

Elias’ arms wrap around him, his grip as solid as marble. Yet Jon can feel the way Elias shakes against him, overwhelmed by whatever he sees through wide blue eyes with blown-out pupils.

_ “Beautiful,” _ Elias says, voice strained with wonder.

His hands come up to caress Jon’s forehead, and Jon exhales as he feels a cool heaviness being set on top of his head. The weight is so natural that it feels like it’s always been there.

There are no mirrors in this place, so Jon twists in Elias’ arms until they’re face to face. Elias’ expression is one of naked rapture, caught in communion with their god, and it is no effort for Jon to look through his eyes and see the crown that Elias has placed on his head.

Strands of silver weave together, and in the gaps between the glittering lines of metal, jewels mimic ever-staring eyes. Obsidian pupil and moonstone sclera, while the irises vary between colours; some, Jon recognises as the piercing ice-blue of Elias’ eyes, which means the shimmering tiger’s eye must be a very charitable interpretation of Jon’s own unblinking gaze.

Jon finds himself laughing quietly, though it’s harder than he expects to pull himself from the weight of watching. He looks faintly ridiculous, the ornate crown incongruous with his rumpled clothes and unbrushed hair streaked with more grey than Elias’.

Every fraction of Elias’ attention — every eye in the world — is focused on admiring Jon, and the regal arrogance of his up-turned chin and intense stare. Jon could accuse him of having rose-tinted glasses, but he knows that Elias sees him exactly as he is: all his flaws and incongruities, all the messy humanity that still sits in his chest despite everything he’s done.

“The crown was never _ meant _ to be literal, was it?”

“No,” Elias manages, with an unrestrained smile of pearl-white teeth. “I’m just a romantic at heart, I’m afraid. It suits you, Archivist.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jon murmurs, finding his voice going quiet with exhaustion.

Absurd, really. He’s just brought about the end of the world as he knew it, electric fear coursing through his veins, and all Jon wants is to sleep. Perhaps, he considers, it’s a subconscious urge to check on those whose nightmares he watches, the unlucky few already terrified of being watched by a force they don’t understand.

(Some tender part of him wonders what Georgie will be thinking. A fearless woman in a world made for terror. Something aches to visit her, and he’d like to tell himself it’s simple curiosity.)

“I suppose we’d better get back to the Archives,” Jon grumbles, his body unwilling to move. It’s one part mundane tiredness, and one part a feeling of supreme _ rightness, _ as though he doesn’t belong anywhere other than here, caught in the pupil of the Eye for the second time in his life. The Archives will feel right, he tells himself — the whole world will, given what they did tonight.

Elias, having gathered some of his composure, scoffs.

“I believe that we have all the time in the world,” he says, airy and unconcerned. Jon sighs — as usual, it falls upon him to be the _ practical _ one.

“I don’t imagine the staff of the British Museum will be happy to find us here come morning.”

“Given that the world just ended, I think they’ll have other concerns, Archivist.”

“... Jon.” _ For the world, Archivist, but for you, Jon, _ he doesn’t say, and Elias’ gaze turns soft. It’s just him watching behind those eyes, and that gentle mortality is so much more intimate than the implacable power of the Ceaseless Watcher that drives them both.

“Jon,” Elias allows, running a hand through Jon’s hair. His fingers brush the crown, and Jon wishes he was annoyed at the smugness rising to the cast of Elias’ face. “For tonight, sleep.”

“Alright,” Jon allows in turn. “Tonight, sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> if someone remembers where i stole the idea of the watcher's crown taking place in the british museum from, please let me know. ao3 search didn't illuminate matters, but i know i got it from _somewhere_
> 
> EDIT: i most likely stole it from the wonderful [above all shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454188), thanks to tanoraqui for pointing it out on discord. on the other hand, a fair few fics have used the british museum for the watcher's crown, so i guess it was just a collective fandom effort
> 
> you can find me at [screechfoxes](https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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